


A Last Valediction

by waterloosunset123



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Dimension Cannon, Dimension-Hopping Rose, F/M, Or Is It?, Parallel Universes, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-05-05 00:27:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5353991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waterloosunset123/pseuds/waterloosunset123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Dimension Cannon doesn't always send her to other dimensions. She just doesn't realize it right away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Last Valediction

A wave of nausea overpowers her as she materializes. It doesn’t surprise her – she’s used to this part - but when her feet hit the ground, and she’s still running because of the blast of the Cannon, her stomach turns in protest, forcing her to slow down. This time, she realizes, the sensation is relentless and stronger than ever, and Rose just stops. She finds the world spinning madly in front of her eyes, and a pulsating pain tearing through the frontal part of her head. Falling on her knees, with the sensation of pins and needles all over, she takes a couple of deep breaths against the grass. Profusely perspiring, she waits. Or rather, hopes. Her eyes close on their own.

It's only a few moments later, even if she is there for what feels like much longer, but gradually her head stops pounding and her stomach settles. She now has enough sense to send the code back to base. _I’m safe_ , it reads. Because she is, technically speaking. Though her reaction to this jump has been uniquely intense, she doesn’t want to worry her friends and colleagues – much less her parents – with much more information.

Standing up, she stretches, once again aware of the ache of trans-dimensional travel in her muscles. She wipes the sweat from her forehead, taking in as much detail as she can, though she has to wait before she can physically take a step.

This is a narrow, deserted country road that, due to the fatal error encountered by the GPS on her wrist computer during the jump, she cannot locate exactly. Fortunately, there doesn't seem to be any detectable danger on the horizon – just quiet. She decides to explore the area on foot, and make the trek to the next city, town, or village - wherever that is. See what she can find.

As long as the tracker and the manual override for the Cannon are online, she's good.

It’s almost sundown. The peach-yellow skies, the gathering of clouds with salmon-tinted edges, and the soft, almost-ambre sunshine, remind her a little of her travels. Before. Though, to be honest, very few things don't these days. It's like a mental tic she has - everything comes back to a blue box and its journey through the stars. Like a reflex, she remembers atmospheres that smelled like oranges and beaches with silken silver sand running easily through her toes; she remembers giant space stations in peril and the streets in her home town more than a century before she was born; she remembers, eventually, a pair of gorgeous brown or soulful blue eyes, or his London or Northern voice telling her excitedly about a place they are visiting, striving to leave no details out. She remembers him holding her hand through it all and, in the task of simply being The Doctor, being absolutely everything.

It’s a thought process she’s stopped many times every day since she was trapped. It’s a thought process that she supposes is never going to be easy to control. But she does. Just barely.

She follows the partly-bare trees and the trail of ochre and wine-coloured leaves winding along the dirt road, gazing from time to time at the vast fields of swaying grass on either side. The road seems never-ending, but, on the upside, the few grey clouds in the sky appear small and nonthreatening. This is a rarity. If she is close to where she should be, that is. In any case, she should be good to go for a while.

Miles and hours go by. Now only aided by the flashlight of her phone, she finally spots lights - the kind of electric lights that mean she can at least hope not to be too far off mark at least in the time sense.

(Then again, the last time she thought that last bit, it was her second jump, and she ended up somewhere in the Middle Ages, nowhere near her target).

Knowing she will only have ten more minutes in this uneventful version of reality before she’s pulled back automatically by the Cannon, she gets there.

The place is a rest stop, with cars, and motorcycles parked in the large asphalt area, which nearly reflects the moonlight. The acrid smell almost revives her nausea. It's like the pavement has only been placed or retouched in the last few days. The trees all around obscure the road, so she sits on the only bench by the exit and turns to read the bright signs on the small restaurants and the hotel in front of her. Well, at least she’s in Britain - Wales, to be precise. That much the Cannon got right. But when or in what dimension, she doesn’t know. She also hasn’t spotted any zeppelins in the sky that might clue her in. Earth also seems to be in the same place in every dimension so far, so charting the constellations would also offer no clues. She does that, anyway.

It takes her a second before she reclines fully on the bench as she takes in her surroundings, and a few more to notice in her peripheral vision the man who has just sat next to her to her left. A thin, elderly man in a long black coat. She quickly studies his face with as much detail as basic politeness and the light will allow, and then the breath is knocked out from her lungs.

Because if she were to make a list of all the likely places to find The Doctor, this place wouldn't cross her mind.

Yet here he is.

He looks about fifty or sixty years older now, and has not regenerated. She doesn't know if either of those things surprise her at all, or if the shock of meeting him so unexpectedly is drowning everything else she might feel.

"Rose,” he says, cheerfully, and it's a good start, him knowing who she is. Him saying her name in that way he always had.

(Her mind goes to the depressing jump last month: the Doctor in the leather jacket, her first Doctor, didn't know her at all).

“Hi.” It’s all she can muster before her voice gives out in utter disbelief.

A brief second goes by, and she launches herself at him, holding him tight. "Doctor!"

“Hello,” he replies, returning the embrace with almost more enthusiasm than she.

Seeing his smile, the brightness in his eyes, again after so long, renders her once again speechless.

So she takes the time to look more closely. And she notices. Uncharacteristically, he's dressed in all black, wearing formal shoes.

"Well, this is new,” she observes. "Thought I'd never see you out of your other suit. Or your trainers."

His abundant mess of white hair blows in the wind as he looks away. “Yeah, well." He leaves the thought eloquently unfinished.

“What happened?”

“Can’t tell you. You know I can’t.”

She understands. And, though he is annoyed by someone stating the obvious, she has to. “I’m too far ahead, aren’t I.”

“Sort of, yeah.” He grabs her hand. Intertwines their fingers and meets her eyes. “But you’ll get there. Eventually. I'm sure of it.”

“How long?”

But her immediate question goes unanswered. Instead, he smiles, wide and contagious as always. “Rose Tyler.”

She tries to hold back a smile - it's impossible. “What?”

“We stopped the stars from going out."

"Did we?"

"Do you doubt it?"

"Not really." As much as she tries, her curiosity wins out moments later. "How long has it been for you? Since that happened?”

She knows Time Lords don’t age, or nowhere near as quickly as human beings do. So the answer to her question could very well be _centuries_. She also wonders why he hasn't regenerated. Centuries in The Doctor's case mean centuries of trouble, plenty of opportunities for disaster to strike.

But again, he stays silent and looks down at himself, thoughtful. “You’re right.”

Ah, deflection it is. “What?”

He takes his lapel in hand. “This. You're quite right. It’s a little bit Robert Smith, the all-black.”

“Except for the hair," she says, without missing a beat.

"Oi, what's wrong with my hair?"

"Nothing. Suits you, actually."

He runs his fingers through it, chuckling. "Thank you."

Her tone suddenly goes serious, though she smiles. "Doctor?"

"Yeah?"

"Nothing. Just. It just hit me."

"What?"

"How much I missed you."

"Me, too." They mean it in a slightly different sense, especially with the way his voice breaks just enough for her to notice, but she doesn’t quite understand how or why until he grabs her hand with both of his, and she feels the ring on his finger.

The smoothness of a wedding band on The Doctor's finger was the last thing she expected to find.

(Not that she expected to find anything when she made this jump, given the rotten luck she’d been having the past few weeks).

She takes his hand and examines it carefully, feels the nervous tension in the joints of his knuckles, sees the look he gives her that tries desperately to be neutral, but isn't. She _knows_ it isn't - knows those hands, those eyes, far too well. They tell the same story as his clothes and his voice.

"What happened?”

His expression is of confusion, and concern about the tears at the corners of her eyes, which he immediately tries to stop with his thumbs. “What do you mean?”

“You lost someone," she says slowly, because she's still trying to believe it. Gently, she goes back to considering his hand. "Your wife?”

He gives her an almost imperceptible nod, and looks away again, exactly like he did before.

And she goes silent. Because she suddenly doesn't know what to say or if she should say anything at all. Because how exactly does one continue this conversation with a man whose experience with personal loss spans a literal millennium? She is at a loss. 

The way he averts his eyes is very characteristic. She thinks he doesn't want to continue the conversation in the first place.

And she's right.

"I can't say anything else." It's barely audible.

She hugs him again - gently, this time. And he holds her, holds _on_ to her as she finally speaks. "I'm so sorry."

"Don't be," he replies, and she feels him smile slightly against her shoulder. "We were happy."

She pulls back a bit and looks him in the eye. "Yeah?"

"Oh, yes." And even though there's pain in his eyes, his voice leaves no room for doubt. "Happier than I thought was even humanly possible."

"You sap."

"I know." He grins. "True, though. It was quite the adventure."

Her smile grows.

So that's what she's given: for what appears to be a very long time, he was _happy_. In her view, nearly nothing she learns here could be better or matter as much.

In the silence that follows, she observes their surroundings with more care, noticing for the first time, in what little information she can get from the design of the cars and the buildings, that she may be further ahead than she thought at first. Perhaps a full twenty years, if she goes by the rough timeline of technological development they've put together in Pete's World. But she still can't know for certain (at least not until she gets back to base), and she knows he still wouldn't tell her if she asked.

She notices, too, that something very important is not within sight. “Where is the TARDIS?”

“London."

"Really? Why'd you leave her behind?"

"Well, Tony asked me not to leave the planet so soon after... He knew I was planning to, obviously. 'Cause that's what I do. So, I just drove out here. Clear the head, you know.”

"Yeah." Then she realises what he said. “Wait, Tony?”

“Yes.”

"As in Tony _Ty_ _ler_?"

He nods, expression shifting between surprise at his runaway mouth for having told her and resignation that she’d find out anyway.

Meanwhile, she tries for a couple of seconds to process the enormous implication. It was _her_ he lost recently, or a version of her (because, after all, she cannot be 100% certain about this being her timeline, or even dimension).

Before she can form a verbal response, however, he confirms it.

“Oh, really, Rose. Who else could it possibly be, eh? If it wasn't you?”

She goes mute for an instant, again bombarded with about a million emotions she can't be expected to pinpoint right away, let alone understand, and only notices she's gone back to crying when he brushes his thumb across her cheek again. The questions in her head are unrelenting, though, and all of them try to rush out of her mouth in the very next moment.

"But how-" 

"Doesn't matter."

She knows that is the most involved answer he can give right now and lets her questions drop in the face of his previous candidness. "Rose?"

“Yes?”

“How long have you got? The Cannon?”

She looks at her watch, estimates she has about five more minutes.

“I'll stay longer,” she offers. “If you want me to.”

“Well, I would, but I seem to remember that you have a very important mission to get back to.”

“Yeah.” She sniffles and he dries the last of her tears. "Suppose I do.”

Still. She rests against his shoulder, like she used to, running down the time she has. She briefly ponders the number of jumps, the number of days, it'll take to see him again, to start this bright, beautiful future she's seen with him, and closes her eyes, willing herself not to think of those numbers. To stop the realist train of thought that concludes it could be years. She reminds herself that right now he's here, hugging her close and tucking her against him as if (or rather, _because_ ) he’s been doing it for ages. For the first time since she and the team started on the Cannon, the simple contact, and his unique companionship, allow her to relax. Finally.

They’re both still a while, watching a clear sky silently exploding with stars (the reason he picked this place), until she asks the question she asked the last time she saw him. “So what now? For you? What are you going to do?”

“Oh, I'll be fine,” he replies, then frowns. “I will. You worry about me too much.”

"Oh, like you don't.”

He smiles.

"Seriously, though.”

“I promise."

Before she can speak again, the pull starts. In her chest. It’s a terrible feeling. An uncomfortable pressure. She knows the Cannon’s sending her back to base in one minute.

“Doctor,” she warns.

But he knows, and hugs her tight. Speaks close to her ear. Words he probably (should have) said before.

To her, the phrase is as thrilling as it is unsettling.

And then, of course, she _knows_ why.

If she's landed in her original dimension, or at least her own timeline, which appears to be a likely possibility now (except that the speed of The Doctor's aging still remains a mystery), then she's found out far too much about her own future. And that, she knows, could compromise everything. So she builds up her courage.

"Do it, then," she tells him.

"Do what?"

"I crossed my own timeline. Sort of. Know too much about it, anyway."

There is a pause, where he sighs, and looks down at their joined hands. "You don't know everything, though. Still could preserve the timelines without -"

"Are you sure? Absolutely sure?"

He thinks for a second. "No." His eyes are definitely watering over even as he smiles, and it's the sharp-as-knives ache she had at the beach all over again. "You always were brilliant."

She gives him a half-smile. "Go on," she insists. "Please."

Still, he resists. "Rose."

She squeezes his hand, touches his cheek. "Nah. Won't risk it. Ever. Okay?"

He covers the hand on his face with his own. "Yeah."

"You?"

"Never." He kisses her palm.

She smiles. "Good."

He finally agrees, but moves slowly, placing his hands on her shoulders. He meets her eyes for a second before he closes his, prompting her to do the same.

A kiss on her forehead and they say their goodbyes.

His fingers touch her temples and take her last fifteen minutes- almost tentative, always gentle.

She falls and he catches her, holding on.

The next second, she disappears.

**Author's Note:**

> Set some time in Series 4 (for her) and quite a while after "Journey's End" (for him).  
> Title inspired by John Donne's brilliant "A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning."  
> Thank you for reading! As always, any and all feedback is much appreciated.  
> 7-DEC-2015. Made a few rewrites. Nothing major.  
> 13-DEC-2015. New ending.  
> 19-DEC-2015, 16-APR-2016. Small rewrites here and there. Last version for the foreseeable future. Who knows, though. Maybe someday my brain will spontaneously come up with a great tweak and I'll have to include it.  
> 17-JUN-2017. Polished, added a few lines here and there. Now it's complete, I swear.


End file.
